This Kind of Son
by asterouslywhelming
Summary: The crowbar claws viciously through his skin, tugging at his flesh as a mother would her dying child, desperate to not be parted. The vermillion liquid blends into the deep red of his uniform, melds so well it's almost as if it's not there at all.


**I wrote this in honor of Jason Todd's death, so I'm sorry that this is a day late. This contains pretty descriptive violence, gore, and death; fair warning. I don't own anything. The quotes are taken from "A Death in the Family". Enjoy:**

It has been only an hour.

Not enough time to say goodbye to loved ones.

Too much time to dwell on past mistakes.

Ample time for his world to end.

An hour of the sizzling burn of betrayal and the sharp sting of disappointment. An hour of the sharp twinge of regret burning in his every cell. An hour of the paralyzing assault of shame and rejection. An hour of the panicked fear.

He watches his mother out of the corner of his eye, gauging her reactions. This woman, this woman with his eyes and his nose and his _face_, is his mother. This woman, this woman with the blonde curls and the freckles and the petite figure, is his mother. He waits for the word, for the image his sees, to trigger that warm feeling in his chest, that feeling of belonging.

But all that comes is the burning betrayal as her eyes dart quickly to the door. All that comes is the stinging of disappointment as he realizes this woman, this familiar stranger, will never be his mother. Or, not the one he imagined anyway.

His eyes shut, blocking off the image of his not-mother, blurring her into blackness. And he thinks of Bruce.

That warm feeling associated with family, that warm feeling associated with safety, home, and love, fills his chest. Everything he ever wanted - a family, someone to love him, someone to aspire to _be_ - is that man. That man with the cold, calculating blue eyes. That man with the haunting past, so much like his own and yet so incredibly different. That man with the drive, the skill, the focus, the means, and the restraint he himself will never possess. That man with the fake smile and fake laugh, the real deal offered only to his predecessor, the preferred one, the _special_ one, the _son_.

He just hadn't realizes this until the last possible second.

His father.

Everything he's ever wanted.

The warm feeling vanishes. Fades into the cool steel of a crowbar, the chill poorly masked by the warm coating of his own blood. Fades into the ghostly cackle, the maniacal laughter that brings stronger men screaming - or laughing, depending on the day - to their knees. Fades into the lethargy of blood loss, his head pounding and his body weak. Fades into the quiet tear of fabric echoing in the loud silence. Fades into the sharp, white hot sting of ripping flesh. Fades into the rising nausea, bile beaten back by the pockets of blood oozing into his mouth and sloshing into his lungs and streaming into his stomach. Fades into the anguished scream filling his ears, deafening him, only to find out the cries were his own. Fades into the humiliation, the mortification, of being seen like this, treated like this, in front of his not-mother.

Fades into the betrayal, the disappointment, the regret, the shame, the rejection, and the fear.

His eyes fill with tears behind his mask, and he swallows the lump in his throat, but ends up simply choking on the blood that pools there.

His shoulders ache in their sockets, straining against the tight tugging of his bonds, throbbing with objection at their position; pinned snuggly underneath him. Everything below his shoulders is numb. Blood seeps from the gaping gouges left behind from the scrape of the crowbar as it claws viciously through his skin, tugging at his flesh as a mother would her dying child, desperate to not be parted. The vermillion liquid blends into the deep red of his uniform, melds so well it's almost as if it's not there at all. His stomach knots - blood splashing around inside all the while - and he can still feel the ghost of the crowbar against his body even after it breaks contact with his skin. His ribcage constricts tightly around his rapidly filling lungs, every breath bringing the snapped and splintered bones closer to the delicate organs.

It is nothing he has handled before. It is nothing like stepping too close to Firefly's flames. It is nothing like Bane's strong, trashcan-lid-sized hands squeezing the life out of his neck. It is nothing like having his shoulder pinned to the ground with Penguin's umbrella like an insect in an experiment. It is nothing like Killer Croc's powerful jaws chomp down on his calf as a starving dog would a treat.

No. This pain is worse by far than white hot flames licking his bare skin. Worse by far than his voice box slamming into the back of his throat, pinching shut his airways. Worse by far than the needle-sharp spoke of an umbrella impaling the skin, bones, muscles, and nerves just centimeters above his heart.

The unbearable, agonizing, _excruciating _pain is emerging from somewhere between his lungs and belly button, washing over the rest of his body in tsunami waves in synchronization with the steady hits. Pain - pure, hideous, unadulterated pain - washes over the event, narrowing it down to a set of simple, consecutive movements that repeat over and over until escape has become nothing more than a forgotten dream and mercy is just a word in a dictionary.

This is the pain of skin splitting like betrayed lovers. Organs tearing like tissue paper. Bones snapping like brittle toothpicks.

He writhes and cries against the torrent of agony. Twists and struggles as the vile show repeats, over and over. Yells himself hoarse and spits blood until he vomits. He chokes on the sick mélange of his own blood and vomit, swallows, and his mouth instantly fills with more blood.

The clown stops for a moment, pauses to catch his breath, allowing him a short reprieve as well. He smiles at his not-mother and the smiling monster of a man, the last remaining tendrils of bravado dying with the toothy grin; the warm blood filling his mouth spills over and dribbles down his chin. His not-mother cringes; the clown tips his head back and laughs. He runs his tongue over his teeth. They are coated in blood. It must be horrifying to see.

He supposes this is one of the reasons his not-mother cannot bring herself to look him in the eye.

More betrayal. More disappointment. More regret. More shame. More rejection. More fear.

An hour and a half.

Not enough time.

Too much time.

Ample time for his life to end.

The insane clown stands, offering him a short reprieve from the anguish suffered, which he grasps greedily at. He curls onto his side, freeing his bound arms from beneath him. Every agonized cell in his body objects to the movement. Bile rises in his throat as liquid pools from his recent injuries in a sickeningly warm patch beneath him. Fighting back tears, he watches through heavy-lidded eyes as the clown pats his not-mother on the cheek, grinning like the madman he is.

"My, but that was _fun_! Kind of _messy_, though."

"But what's _Batman_ going to do when he finds out what you've done to his _little friend_?"

"Hadn't thought of that… Maybe it would be best if I didn't leave behind any evidence of my presence. What the Batman doesn't know, can't hurt _me_! Too bad you had to witness this little _display_ of my _temper_, Sheila."

"No! You can't… This isn't fair…"

He draws in a deep, shuddered breath, and his world tilts on it's axis, colors swirling together as his fractured ribs stab at his lungs. Mind too addled by the pain, he isn't able to decipher the meaning of the exchange until the clown slams the door to the factory in his departure, cutting off his not-mother's desperate pleas.

Explosives.

Rigged to blow.

He needs to get this woman out of here.

The tears stream down his bloody cheeks, more sanguine liquid than saltwater, as he rolls onto his knees. He bends his spine, the vertebrae shifting and creaking painfully, jarred and damaged from the clown's ministrations. He twists his arms underneath his legs, muscles spasming and joints throbbing. Trying to fight through the pain, he swallows blood and rising bile. Hands in front of him now, he struggles to his feet. His knees buckle under the pressure of his weight, his right leg nearly collapsing. He aches everywhere - from his toenails to his eyelashes, no spot remains unhurt - a viscous, sticky fluid dripping down his exposed skin. The warm liquid seeps through his skin, weighing down his clothes. The feeling makes him gag, stomach clenching. The tremor in his stomach causes a heavy spurt of blood that he can't afford to lose. His vision tunnels into white, and he sways dramatically on his feet.

He fights back the seductive lull of unconsciousness and puts one bare, shaking foot in front of the other until he reaches his not-mother, the woman bound to a support beam. He pries the knots loose with numb, fumbling digits slick with blood.

"Gotta…get you…outa here. I'll…save you, Mom," he says, promises, his voice thick and watery with blood, and yes, it feels strange calling her that. The term he has longed to call someone - _anyone_ - feels wrong on his tongue, leaving a residual bitter, hollow pang in his chest.

Her eyes flash with guilt, before she glances away. Even with her disappointment in him, even with her betrayal, he will fight to his last breath to prevent her from harm. In these last few, precious moments, she sees a glimpse of the son she could have had, and mourns his loss.

He thinks only of Bruce, his pretend-father and their pretend-family, and the warm feeling of safety that settles in his chest and chases away the bitter hollowness with the thoughts.

They work their way to the door, the countdown beeping steadily behind them. With every tick of the clock, their hearts race faster. Death lurks in the dark recesses of their minds, taunting them as the possibility grows stronger, more solidified, with every second that passes. He watches as her fingers twitch, her muscles bunching in an effort to hold herself back.

"Run…for it," he gasps, wheezes, seeing easily what she really wants. "Go."

"We'll both get out of here, together. Stay here while I get the door."

It is locked.

Only five seconds remain on the clock.

The regret hits him hard, now. Regret that he can't stay with the people he loves, regardless of the fact that they will never love him the way he does, and that now they will never get the chance. Regret that he wasn't strong enough to fight the anger of his parents' death. Regret that he never followed orders. Regret that he never told Alfred how much he loves his cookies, Dick how much he enjoys training with him, the Titans how much he likes their missions, and Bruce how much he means to him.

Three seconds.

Not enough time for Batman - for Bruce, for his pretend-father - to save him.

Too much time for him to realize he will never grow old, will never have more of a family than he does now, will never go to his own graduation, will never fall in love, will never walk down the aisle, will never have children of his own, will never go to college, will never again see the white slits of his pretend-father's eyes through the cowl, will never sense that sudden silence that means he's right behind him, will never again fly over the rooftops, will never branch out on his own, will never reach his dreams, will never _find out _his dreams.

Ample time to protect one last person, to save one last innocent soul.

One second.

Not enough time to say goodbye.

Too much time to dwell on past mistakes.

Ample time to forgive.

He forgives his parents, for leaving him. He forgives his not-mother, for betraying him. He forgives his pretend-brother, for lying to him about being welcome in a place he never truly belonged. He forgives his pretend-family, for not being real. He forgives himself, for never being good enough.

The detonator hits zero.

He dives in front of his not-mother, body screaming in pained protest, just as the world explodes into white after an eternity of darkness and shadows. Into painless bliss after an hour and a half of agony. Into forgiveness after a lifetime of accusation. Into hard-earned peace after a thousand-and-one-year war.

Jason forgives Bruce.

What kind of son would he be if he didn't, even if they were never truly family?


End file.
